


Visions of you

by Rurtle



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Bottom Illya, Drunk Sex, Inappropriate fantasies of one's Soviet partner, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Napoleon just wants illya to ride his dick all night long, Napollya - Freeform, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sorry Not Sorry, and ruin his life, my sweet boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-09-24 02:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20350870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rurtle/pseuds/Rurtle
Summary: After the Berlin Bathroom Fight, Solo can't forget the feeling of Illya's long legs wrapped around his waist.Then he starts to fall.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I was capable of writing something with more plot but alas. So. Here you go. Porn. 
> 
> Title is from Something Human by Muse

The big picture's gone, 

Replaced with

Visions

Of

You.

It starts, well, literally when it starts, on the day they became partners, in a dingy bathroom stall in East Berlin. Kuryakin has him in a chokehold, elbow snug under his chin and the other hand locking the hold in place. Napoleon bucks his hips and thrashes to get out, but Kuryakin is obviously skilled in groundwork. So here he is, life at the mercy of a tall, dour, very Russian, very attractive KGB agent, seated between two long lean legs clamped around his hips. Kuryakin tightens the hold, crossing his ankles around Napoleon.

He vaguely registers how good those thighs feel wrapped around his waist before a barked order from the Russian handler makes the handsome agent freeze and shove him out of his deadly embrace.

"Don't kill your partner on your first day."

The words make the brief, inappropriate bout of pleasure fizzle to the back of his mind.

He doesn't think about it again until he brings Peril, soaked and leaning snug against his back, back to Rome on his yellow Vespa. And then he can't stop thinking about it.

Those endless legs are on either side of him again and Napoleon feels the muscle of the inner thighs press against his hips. He is this close to releasing the handlebars, flipping his body around, and pressing himself between Illya's legs, torso to torso, safety and scooter be damned to a fiery hell at the side of the road.

After that.

_After that_, he really can't stop thinking about it.

He can't stop thinking about it as Victoria has her wicked way with him, beautiful ass and legs, hair not quite the same blond.

He can't stop thinking about it as he picks the familiar watch off a body, or as he tosses said watch to Illya, or as Waverly announces their official, long term partnership.

He can't stop thinking about it in Cairo, Tashkent, Saigon, Singapore. He can't stop thinking about it as they make it through mission after mission, disaster after flaming fucking disaster.

He wonders if the skin there is the same colour has the rest of him. He wonders how he tastes like, wonders if he's silent in bed, wonders if he'd do it with a man, _wonders if he's a virgin._

He wonders, fantasies of Illya in every position and permutation of those possibilities running through his filthy fucking brain as he comes in the shower for the second time that day -

"_Fuck_."

It's a Wednesday.

They're in New York. They've got the week off and have just been provisioned their apartments to settle into. He stares blankly at the white tiles of the bathroom wall, catching his breath, bleaching the image of long legs and pliant lips from behind his eyelids.

God, that was incredible, he thinks with a slight twinge of guilt. Fantasy Illya rolls on his back, eyes closed and mouth broken open, blots of red-pink reaching his heaving chest, nipples pebbled and pert, altogether golden, broad, and glorious. Solo touches the tip of his tongue to the hard palate of his mouth. Illya. A whisper of whispers. A prayer in moments like these, utterly reverent and ruinous of the word. It takes him another ten minutes.

He dries himself off and slips into a fluffy blue bathrobe. His partner is probably playing chess with himself in his own apartment upstairs -- "I take top," Illya had said -- while Napoleon was jacking off to a mental roulette of absolutely debaucherous sexual fantasies involving said partner.

It's been this way for the better part of this half a year. Illya is Illya, stoic and awkward. And, in Napoleon's opinion, incredible sexy. Napoleon just wants to set him on fire and fuck him to ruins. Or sometimes it's other permutations. Maybe Illya's a fiend in bed. Maybe he's loud, forward, more experienced that Napoleon himself. Maybe Illya would straddle him and pin him down and bounce on his dick and ruin his whole life like that. That's great too. Brilliant. Absolutely Perfect.

He files that thought away for when he can get it up again.

...........

“Is…is nothing, Cowboy. Is weak vodka.” 

Illya ’s head lolls back and he almost falls on his ass if not for Napoleon stumbling back a new steps to get his centre of gravity under control. Illya’s feet trip over each other, veering the pair to the opposite side of the walking path. “M’not. Not…drunk.”

“Ha!” Napoleon half laughs, half pants. Strong as he is, it’s no easy feat hauling almost two metres of stumbling comrade up the hilly paths. “Left, and then right, Peril. Come on.” The side of Illya’s face somehow ends up stuck to his shoulder. And oh god he is so close. His smells like hotel shampoo and some mysterious soviet aftershave that’s standard issue for all KGB agents. It’s a nice smell though, one with none of the usual luxury that Napoleon enjoys in his own personal grooming. It’s simple and clean. 

He throws the door of the room open with a heave of relief. For some reason, Illya finds the gravity of the couch irresistible. “No, no, Peril.” He catches the man and hurls him in the vague direction of his attached bedroom. Illya somehow gets the messages and stays on his feet just long enough to fall face first on the bed. 

The wrong bed. 

“Mm… smells like you.” If he didn’t know the man, he’d say he was snuggling. “Is nice.” Napoleon freezes at the door. Illya’s accent is ten times stronger than usual but he somehow finds it ridiculously endearing. “We gotta get you out of those shoes, Peril.”

“No," Illya snuffles softly as Napoleon tosses his shoes to the corner of the room. Illya fucking Kuryakin fucking giggles and turns on his back, "funny CIA." He's got this dopey grin on his face as he looks at Napoleon and Napoleon is suddenly reminded of how young Illya actually is. He’s a cramped up ball of nerves carved to perfection by the KGB, but underneath that he’s just a young man trying to prove himself to those who hold his leash. Spite bubbles in his gut. Illya deserves nice things, he really does. 

“But you not like me,” It’s only after Illya replies that Napoleon realises he said that last thought out loud. Illya is looking up at him with those blue blue eyes and a strand of yellow hair falls from the parting at his hairline just so and Napoleon swears he is pouting. A pink tongue comes out of swipe over dry lips and oh — _Oh. _

He swallows deeply and lowers his voice, “But I do. How can I show that I do, Peril?”

He is half sitting on the bed at this point, right hand lightly gripping Illya’s ridiculous corduroy pants. Illya keeps staring and doesn’t reply. He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, then aborts it, then shifts his hips on the mattress almost subconsciously. If Napoleon were a good man, he’d stand up and leave.

But his mouth is dry and Illya is making his resolve crumble like glaciers into the sea. He instead mounts the bed in a swift movement and presses his hand on Illya’s shoulder and Illya looks at him like he’s fucking jesus. “You are are fucking work of art.” He holds Illya’s wide gaze for a while more. There is a hint of hesitation in Illya’s eyes before his gaze darts down to Napoleon’s lips for a split second, and that’s all it takes to for Napoleon to throw fuck shit out of the window and into whatever tsunami raged beneath. 

He kisses Illya, once, on the lips; a light, innocent pressure. And then again, at the corner of Illya’s mouth. Illya makes a small gasp and turn his head to the side, catching Napoleon’s lips. Napoleon falls off the deep end. 

He runs his hands up Illya’s arms, hooks his thumbs inside the hem of that black turtle neck, rucking it up as his fingers climb up Illya’s biceps. He brushes the stupid cap off his wheat blond hair. Napoleon moves down, breathing in the skin of Illya’s neck, chest, dragging a flat tongue over a nipple. Illya arches into it, one hand tangled in the back of Napoleon’s head; the other going down to his hardening cock in his pants like a shy, misbehaving teenager.

“Mmm…Cowboy. I want—"

“Yes.” Napoleon breathes, tugs Illya’s pants and underwear past his hips. 

“And… you…” He speech is broken by a moan as Napoleon takes his dick in hand. It’s proportionate in size to the rest of Illya and the most, dare he say, adorable shade of pink at the head. He gives it a light squeeze and strokes down the length. 

“You’ll get it, darling.” He takes it in his mouth, sliding his tongue broadly on the underside and stroking Illya’s balls lightly between his fingers. 

He glances up at Illya and he’s sloppily nodding his head and then throwing it back in something of a wail. Illya is the furthest from that wall of a KGB agent that Napoleon still somehow finds devastatingly attractive. 

“Da, Cowboy, yes”

“Give me a moment."

He backs up a little to go searching for some condoms that he’s pretty sure he has in either a drawer or overnight bag, but Illya just grips his forearm, tugging him back to bed. “Want you inside. Now."

Holy fuck. He freezes because holy fuck. Illya is blushing to the chest and his cock is hard and covered in saliva between his lightly spread legs and Napoleon has never in his life been so turned on. 

“Cowboy…” Illya calls, almost a whine, and he goes. 

He tips a dollop of lubricant on his index finger and traces the cleft of Illya’s ass, spreading the substance around his hole, casually teasing until Illya lets out a small sigh and presses his hips down. He dips the tip of his middle finger in and oh god, it’s so tight. He pauses. 

“Nechevo.” Illya presses down some more and pulls him down and claims his lips. Illya’s a pretty good kisser. His mouth is warm and wet; his tongue is as playful as his demeanour isn’t, he teases and pulls back and melds with Napoleon like it’s consuming him. He is almost uncompromisingly tight down there that Napoleon suspects he might sprain his finger from the wiggling. Illya reaches down and runs a thumb over Napoleon’s erection, “want you…later."

He cant say anything but — _Yes_, and then inserts anther finger. Illya grimaces slightly but doesn’t seem any less turned off as Napoleon continues to work on his hole. His fingers lightly massage the prostate, teasing, as his other hand lightly roams the inside of Illya’s thighs before settling on his cock. Illya swallows and stares down at Napoleon’s hands between his legs, then shifts his hazy gaze to the American’s face. Napoleon meets his gaze like that, cornflower blue eyes and flushed cheeks, plush lips kissed red and beseeching. 

He withdraws his fingers and lifts the Russian’s left leg onto his shoulder. Illya seeks his other hand out, grasping it in his own, and somehow It’s more intimate than anything Napoleon has ever done. He leads their joined hands to beside Illya’s head, presses them into the bed, and pecks him on the lips, silently asking. Illya gasps into his mouth, “Napoleon, please—"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently it wasn't very nice of me to leave yall high and dry *sprinkles more porn*

“Napoleon, please—“

Lava flows through his veins and there’s a voice in his head telling him to step back, reconsider, but he’s here, seated between Illya’s very beautiful, very widely spread legs. He wants it. Illya wants it. They are both way past the point of no return. He pumps his hips a few times, sliding his erection along Illya’s crack, purposely catching the rim on the tip of his cock. A low impatient whine hurries him. He aligns himself with his free hand — the one not currently tenderly interlocked with Illya’s — and guides the head into his devastatingly hot, tight partner. Illya’s face hikes up in a wince at the first breach, like he wasn’t expecting the stretch.

“Illya, Illya,” he commands his bedmate’s attention back to his face and gently strokes his inner thighs before continuing. Illya’s flush is beautiful, heavy lashes darkened by moisture resting on impossibly red cheeks. He lets out a quiet moan when Napoleon’s halfway in, not quite comfortable yet but trusting nonetheless. 

“Okay?”

“Da,” comes the reply, so bare that Napoleon can scarcely make out the enunciation of the word if not for the little nod that accompanied it. 

He pulls out, all most all the way, then slowly enters Illya again, this time aiming towards his navel, eliciting a violent shudder and a breathy yelp. Their hands are still linked, and Illya’s grip is crushing. The friction is making his head swim and Illya is tugging the hairs on the back of his head, tugging him down to himself. He leans down, kisses Illya senseless, then rolls his hips just so, until he feels Illya jolt and gasp. 

He devours all of Illya’s moans, whispers of his name; breaths, pants, and damn Illya’s mouth is so unbearably hot, just like down there, just like he’s pure flame on the inside. Warm large hands wander; squeezing Napoleon's shoulder, brushing over his nipples, clenching into loose fists on his chest as he fucks Illya deeper, faster, until they’re pressed so tightly into the mattress. 

Illya comes with a sound that shakes him to the core and shoots straight to his dick, and Napoleon helps him ride it out, prolonging it, until Illya is twitching and overstimulated and blabbering nothing but a butchered, heavily accented version of him name. A knee pushes against Napoleon’s ribs, nudging him away. He gives a few more shallow thrusts before pulling out and pumping himself to climax on Illya’s thighs like a parched man. Jesus Christ—

He collapses on to Illya, who grunts softly, and brushes his lips along the side of his face, gently scraping his teeth on slight stubble. Illya turns his head and meets him lips and they kiss for awhile, nothing too deep, just pecking and sighing as they come down from the high.

“Be right back, love.”

The bathroom is much too bright and cold, so he makes quick work of himself with a damp washcloth. There’s a smudge of blood on his dick. Fuck.

When he comes back from cleaning himself up, he takes in the room with fresh senses. It smells a lot like sex, which tickles his ego, but it also smells a lot like vodka. Illya is out like a light, turtle neck rucked up and socks still on. It’s an absolute mess on his body between the two articles of clothing. He wipes up the spunk from Illya’s skin and does a quick check — a little staining is all. 

He sinks into the bed next to the unconscious Russian. The night plays before him again and as his eyes slide shut, he vaguely registers the severity of whatever it is they’ve just done. It smells _a lot like vodka. _

Fuck.

_ Fuck. _

_ _

_ . _

They don’t speak for a week after that. Other than missions that come with the necessary communication, Illya locks himself in his room as soon as they get back to base, and it’s only a matter of time before Waverly gets suspicious. Gaby knows it, and Napoleon knows that, but she amuses at them dancing around each other as long as it doesn’t compromise work. 

He feels guilty as hell about it. He knew how seriously Illya took his loyalties, how constantly paranoid he was about stepping out of line, how any sleight could mean death behind the curtain, how his head is was filled with warped concepts of love. He knew how ashamed Illya was, about everything that was him, about his past, his chains, the hulking mass that makes the physical vessel in which he resides. He knew it was a moment of weakness, and he took advantage of it because he consciously wanted it. He wishes Illya would speak, because the Russian doesn’t seem to not want to be partners, but at the same time isn’t pretending that nothing happened that night. 

So, after a week of walking on eggshells, imagine his surprise when he opens his door to find Illya standing there in slacks and — hotel slippers, as if he left his apartment in an impulsive hurry. Illya looks just as surprised as Napoleon feels, standing at his doorway with baby blue doe eyes. Napoleon steps aside silently, with finality, and shuts the door behind Illya. They stand in silence for a moment and Napoleon’s heart is soaring and sinking at the same time. 

Illya stands, back to the door, rubs a hand over his face, and opens his mouth. It hangs open like that for a bit before he regains his senses and finally forms words. 

“Cowboy. Last week,” he clips. “I am sorry.” 

Napoleon mouths a ‘what’ in vague shock and Illya hijacks the silence again.

“I was not in control. Careless. It was shameful of me. If you wish for me to transfer, I…” His hands are shaking by his side. On his face the the expression of a man who is intimately acquainted with shame, like every step he makes is one mistake too many. Napoleon swallows. He wants Illya, is well aware that wanting Illya would also chase Illya away.

“Illya, no. _I _was in control and--" He aborts that train of thought. "What would…happen if you request for a transfer?”

Illya doesn’t move, but his eyes follow Napoleon. He swallows audibly. “Oleg is still my handler. KGB would send replacement.” His expression is open in a way that makes Napoleon’s want to wrap him in blankets and keep him from the world. 

“And you?”

“Back to Russia”

The words make Napoleon’s body go cold. He knows Illya belongs to his motherland. He knows Kremlin keeps a tight leash on its mastiffs. He knows that shame keeps Illya shackled. But that Illya would belong to Russia, in that way, because of Napoleon’s actions, makes his heart break. Napoleon could nod, could just say yes, and Illya would be dead within a year, left out to waste away in the frozen plains of Siberia. The consideration and respect that Illya has left for himself so utterly undermines the person that he is, the person that Napoleon has come to love. 

“You don’t have to go,” he says ambiguously. He hold’s Illya’s gaze fiercely. You should be mine. You should be free. Something in Illya’s eyes crack. “Illya.” He puts a hand on Illya’s right bicep. Illya’s jaw is frozen stiff and his eyes swim with conflict. Napoleon raises his other hand and presses his palm against Illya’s warm neck. His thumb glides over the light scruff of Illya’s cheek and pushes lightly on his bottom lip. Illya’s lashes lower and touch his cheeks.

“I wanted you that night. Been wanting you, for a long time now. It was anything but shameful.”

Illya lets out a shaky breath. His hands come up to lightly grip Napoleon’s wrist, “Napoleon,” his name sounds like a prayer on Illya’s lips,”help me, Napoleon.”

“Of course,” he whispers, and leads Illya to the couch. He asks if he wants a drink, but Illya says no, so Napoleon pours him some apple juice. It’s all so painfully innocent. 

He asks if Oleg knows anything, Illya says no, but the handler never trusted Illya. Oleg is perpetually suspicious, even of the KGB’s best. What he is doing is a betrayal to the motherland, and certain death awaits should he be found out, Illya says. 

Defect, Napoleon wants to say. Run away with me. I would give you the world.

But he still has his own loyalties, and he cannot put U.N.C.L.E on the line the same way he has put his heart, so he doesn’t, and they talk until Illya, exhausted, rises to leave.

“Stay", he says, and his Peril does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having regular frequent sex is less likely than you think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> casually tryna make it less hot and sad

A few months later

It’s a simple pleasure to peck Illya on the cheek at the kitchen island and feel the Russian glare holes into the back of his skull as he makes his speedy retreat. It's even more of pleasure when Illya starts chopping the carrots with more aggression than absolutely necessary because of the stolen kiss.

It’s been a strange few months by all measures. A nice few months.

After that night in his hotel room, Illya opened up. They talk a lot between missions and during stakeouts, or quietly on the plane when Gaby is sleeping. She totally knows though, and Napoleon has no illusions that it is possible to hide it from her. 

They spend much of their down time together, going on _work partner_ lunches, _work partner_ walks, _work partner_ house meetings. Sometimes Gaby joins them, ordering the most expensive lunch special on the menu before hopping off to do shopping in town before the bill comes. Sometimes they join her.

Sometimes things heat up. Sometimes _Work Partner House Meetings_ end in them getting each other off in the shower, or mission planning becomes a make out session on the couch before duty gets in the way again. 

Sometimes it’s simpler. Sometimes when they’re crashing side by side in the middle of some godforsaken farmland after running from drug lords’ henchmen, when the night it warm and hay is poking their back, Illya lies with the side of his arm stuck to Napoleon’s, palm up and fingers touching.

Once in a while, they have sex. It’s not very often that they get time to themselves in this line of work, but Napoleon always makes the most of it.

.

The first time he comes inside Illya, it is a disaster. As soon as the wave pleasure washes over him, he realises that Illya has gone stock still. The Russian has the most betrayed expression Napoleon had ever seen on anyone’s face. Eyes wide and mouth hanging open, dick rapidly going soft, he looks like he is about to cry.

“Fuck. Illya— “

“Take it out,” Illya is still frozen around him, like shock turned him to stone. “Please take it out. Napoleon."

Napoleon pulls out awkwardly, cum dribbling out Illya’s fucked out hole. He isn’t going to lie, he's damn close to panicking. He had been a fucking idiot, he hadn’t asked or confirmed or communicated, and now Illya looks shaken out of his wits.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he grabs a couple of tissues from the bedside and sticks them between Illya’s thighs, briskly wiping the semen away. “Do you want to clean it out? We don’t have to continue.”

He helps Illya wobble to the bathroom and puts on a warm shower, the Russian wincing all the way. They stand under the spray for awhile, facing each other, and Illya looks thoroughly dissatisfied. He runs his fingers up Illya’s inner thigh and rests the pad of his middle finger at the lightly pulsing entrance, “may I?”

“Finish it, mudak,” Illya glares, almost petulant. He slips a finger in and prods around the wetness, cleaning out the semen and daring a nudge against Illya’s prostate. Illya moans and pushes down on Napoleon’s finger, still sensitive and stimulated. He massages the area until Illya is hard again, then withdraws his finger and guides Illya’s hips such that he’s facing the wall. 

He gets on his knees, face to Illya’s very, very shapely ass. 

“I want to taste you.”

“Yes,” Illya replies simply and braces his arms against the wall of the shower, arching his back to reveal himself to Napoleon. He thumbs Illya’s cheeks open, letting rivulets of water flow down his crack. He stares for awhile, just because he can, just because the lighting in the bathroom’s good. 

“God, you’re beautiful.”

He doesn’t give Illya a chance to respond, just licks a flat line up that ass and puts his tongue to good use. He starts slow, teasing, slipping in and out, blowing. Then he adds his fingers, applying them to the front too, and hardens his tongue into a thick wet muscle and dips as deep as he can go. He traces up the perineum and writes his name over that whole area with his tongue, and story he's telling himself about his name on Illya's ass is the most immature thing ever, but from the way Illya is pressing lightly against his face and moaning, it's great. He stimulates Illya like that until he screams and spurts all over the shower wall.

.

They’re lying side by side on the bed. Illya’s borrowed one of his bathrobes and to say he’s pleased about that is a complete understatement. They’ve only ever had penetrative sex a few times, only when they knew they were absolutely safe given the logistics involved, and he had never ejaculated inside. Illya was slowly coming out of his shell, getting more and more confident with intercourse, so he assumed the Russian would be fine with, well. 

He rolls over to face Illya, slips his hand under the bathrobe to rest flat on his warm, broad chest. Illya doesn’t seem to mind. 

“You didn’t like it just now. Would it be better if I pulled out next time?”

Next time. It’s more careful than Napoleon has ever been.

He seems to have caught Illya by surprise, because the pulse below his hand suddenly accelerates and Illya looks like he’s stuck again.

“Hey. It’s okay. Your body’s reactions are normal. Nothing wrong with that.” He runs his palms in soothing circles and inches closer. He is careful to speak gently, so soft that even the walls can’t hear. 

“It felt…dirty,” Illya looks like he’s about to explode from nerves, “— not you, Cowboy, it is just— Not…good. “

“Illya,” he leans up and presses a kiss to a blond temple, “If it’s no good for you, it won’t be good for me. I should’ve asked.”

Illya follows him with his eyes before sighing, “I also did not know. Is many first times”

Thats fair, he supposes. Illya has no point of reference. Not that he cares, because he doesn’t, but it’s definitely something he should have considered. “We can slowly find out, in time — 

— Only if you want it,” he quickly adds.

There’s the barest of smiles on Illya’s face as he settles himself deeper into the mattress.

"Harasho. Cowboy.”

.

Illya’s trust is a wonderful thing. He thinks it makes Illya a different man. A beautiful human, full of life and, sometimes, joy. 

He lets Illya take apart his CIA issue interceptors— the open look of curiosity on his face is simply precious when he tinkers, but Napoleon also knows that it helps Illya trust him. Sanders doesn’t have opinions on his ‘sexuality and morality’ the way Oleg does Illya. Illya has a lot more to lose in this, this — thing they have between them. 

He hopes giving Illya that leverage makes him feel more in control. It makes Illya open up, makes him funny and charming, brings his insecurities to the surface, but only so that Napoleon can allay them. 

.

On the odd Sunday morning, Napoleon wakes with the sun, no phone call and no mission, to a big mess of Illya's dirty blond hair in his face. It’s peaceful. It’s comforting. 

He’s a fucking fool, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : D?
> 
> "Harasho. Cowboy."
> 
> "Okay. Cowboy."

**Author's Note:**

> i am sorry


End file.
